


I Couldn't Fight It

by trailingviolets



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Friendship/Love, John is a devil but a sweet one, John-centric, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Obsession, Pining John Watson, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock is an ass but, well an ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailingviolets/pseuds/trailingviolets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone is thoroughly misguided, as usual, but John knows the truth. </p><p>Sherlock is alive.</p><p>~In which John Watson refuses to give up an inch.~</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Couldn't Fight It

"There's been an accident, get up."

"Don't care."

"I said get up, John."

"Can't be made to care."

"A murder."

"Damn right there's been a murder."

"I'm not talking about-"

"Don't you say his name! Get out, huh? Go back to your wife and your flat and your fucking smug crew. They all wanted this."

"No, they didn't. Honestly, are you just going to wallow here, John, let him win? He cheated us all."

"You'll never get it, Greg, will you? He was cheated, he didn't want to leave, and in the end he was forced off that building by something-or someone. So, yeah, I'm just going to "wallow" in it. He's gone, what's there left for me to do? Dust up your crime scenes? Soldier on? I'm fucking tired! Why won't everyone just leave me be!" He rolled over, replacing a pile of pillows and blankets that almost entirely swallowed his form. Greg wondered idly how anyone could breathe under there.

Maybe that was the point.

"Alright, John, but try to get your own mail next time."

"It's Sunday!"

"No, it's Thursday."

"Oh."

"Come on, John, really?"

"Goodbye."

"Fine, alright. I'm coming by again next week, and if you're not dressed and upright I'm calling Mycroft."

John's muffled growl was punctuated by a hand emerging from the sheets, middle finger proudly displayed. Lestrade rolled his eyes, added another stack of overdue post to the overflowing kitchen table, and slammed the door on his way out. As soon as his footsteps disappeared into silence John sat up, shaking himself off. He pulled Sherlock's well-preserved laptop towards him from the other half of the bed, coddling it gingerly as he would in Sherlock's sight, long ago.

The times they had surveyed each other across the bed, above covers, their toes touching almost imperceptibly.

"You're right, they're all oblivious bastards. And they're all wrong, I know it. You didn't want to leave me. You begged me to believe you, and I do. I'm going to fight for you, Sherlock, right until they drag me off."

He felt slightly awkward writing out his monologue, exposed almost, but it would be the first place Sherlock visited, every morning, his ask box on The Science of Deduction. Wherever he had been taken, wherever they let him rot, he would make his way back to this. The comforting aggregate; pages and pages of data from their cases together, private conversations both flirting and heated, photos in the papers, everything. John's own blog lately a flood of unwanted emotion, and often even less desirable malice. As usual, everyone had an opinion, and none of them were in the least accurate. His Sherlock did not do it. He simply didn't!  
And likely, he survived. But the blog remained empty, day after day.

John kept writing. It inspired him.

"Your eyes, Sherlock, you asked me to keep looking, what were you trying to tell me with your eyes? You wanted to communicate. You had something to say. Tell me! You git, you never tell me anything..."

John sighed, almost a sob. The anger swept out of him.

"I miss you; I miss your genius, I miss your company at the flat. The feeling of you in the darkness, pressing against my back after a row. They won't know, won't ever understand how close we were. The best team. In each other's arms, both sides of the addiction we knew. The best friends. You pleasured me like a King and I'll never forget the freedom you showed me, to think and always speak my will... I was so alone. Please, Sherlock. One last miracle; don't. be. dead."

He clapped the laptop shut slowly, setting it aside, saying to the empty room, then, deliberately, "Because as long as you're alive, I can find you."

~~~


End file.
